


One Whole Emotion

by trash_bat



Category: British Comedy RPF, Just Puddings (Web Series), Off Menu with Ed Gamble and James Acaster (Podcast)
Genre: Dry Humping, Ed Is Very Patient, First Time, Lube, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Masturbation, Please Kill Me, Self-Esteem Issues, Soft Bro Ed Gamble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 19:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20493824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_bat/pseuds/trash_bat
Summary: James clenches the pillow and Ed’s heart lurches. He’s pushed too hard, fuck, and now they’re going to have to start all over again, pretending to watch documentaries in the front room where a flatmate could interrupt at any second and absolutely no one is going to get their cock out.





	One Whole Emotion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suricatta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suricatta/gifts).

James is sweaty; that much is obvious. Ed can tell even without looking at him head-on. His hair is curling up at the back of his neck, and his skin is hot everywhere Ed’s mouth touches it, which is also mainly his neck, his ears, the top of a shoulder blade, because James can't really bear to do this — do _anything_ — while they’re facing one another. 

So. 

His front side to James's back it was. Had been for the last few dozen times they'd done this, and while it was enjoyable — scratch that, by this point _painfully_ enjoyable — to sprawl out on Ed's — comparatively bigger, thanks for that — bed, to put on a Netflix documentary and make a solid attempt at paying attention for up to six, seven minutes — on this particular occasion Ed’s patience is being severely tested. 

It’s not like it’s all that different from the times previous. The sequence of events that led to them being here? Same. Sitting on the bed, then slumping back on the bed, then eventually, lying down on the bed. James finally relaxing enough to allow Ed to kiss his neck, run his fingers up the back of his skull and into his hair, to subtly mention that he seemed tense, rub his shoulders through his jumper, suggest that things would be easier if they removed the jumper, doing that, then rinse, repeat, for however many shirts James happens to be wearing until he's as close to bare skin as his own squeamishness will allow. 

After all that, and it usually takes a good long while, he has to take a breather and shift himself in his jeans. For Ed, who has had actual, physical sex with another person without having to go through the whole _oh shall we watch something in the bedroom?_ rigamarole, and had even managed to bring both of them off at (more or less) the same time, this? Is fucking excruciating. 

Worse still is how James doesn’t seem bothered at all. He’s perfectly all right to stop just when things are getting interesting. They’ll be going at it pretty fervently, sweat building between James's shoulder blades or under the collar of whatever shirt he's kept on, when Ed will be on the brink of saying _look I’ll take mine off too if you will_ and like some invisible threshold has been crossed James will suddenly go stiff, pull away. He’ll tug at his collar and run a hand through his hair and, balls to fucking everything, _sit up_ to watch the last five minutes of the programme, which is suddenly the most interesting thing to him in the entire universe. 

Never _mind_ that there’s usually a bulge in his boxer briefs, clearly visible from his cross-legged position, never _mind_ that Ed would be more than happy to lay a hand on that bulge, over or — if, say, James were to miraculously lose all his inhibitions, under — his pants and help him progress to the next logical step in this sequence of events. 

James scrunches up his face as Ed gets a hand under his chin and turns his head so he can fit their mouths together. It’s more teeth than proper kissing but if James insists on this position, then Ed will go along with it. Nevertheless he's squirming in pleasure, and while there isn’t a muscle or tendon in James’s body that could be described as _relaxed_ — bless him, James doesn’t _do_ relaxed — he’s keen to have Ed pressed right up against him. In fact, by this point in the proceedings he's doing a little pressing of his own. His narrow bottom right up against Ed’s dull, throbbing erection and shifting back and forth. It fits there perfectly. It's making Ed fucking _mental._

That, along with the noises he’s making, barely audible over the soothing narration emanating from the laptop speaker, are steadily adding to his predicament. A type one diabetic man in his mid-thirties can only be expected to endure so much chronic sexual frustration, after all. 

But, he’ll think, as he sighs, turns his head to the side as if he's got a crick in his neck, and uses the opportunity to press his palm into his crotch to surreptitiously relieve the pressure, if the alternative is not getting to do anything with James? Fuck that for a lark. They’ve got a whole back catalogue on Netflix to get through, and there’s always Amazon, iPlayer, 4OD. Who cares if he’ll never be able to hear David Attenborough’s voice again without getting a semi? It’s a small, weird price to pay.

James lets out a particularly high-pitched whine as Ed sinks his teeth into the place right between James's shoulder and his neck, his free arm bracketing his chest. James paws at the duvet as he’s pulled back into Ed’s strong arms. His whole body shudders, his hips jerk back, and Ed hisses through his clenched teeth at the movement: not enough to provide relief, more than enough to remind him he’d rather be naked, too. 

“Careful,” Ed says, his voice a little shaky. 

“Sorry,” James mumbles, already turning his head back towards the screen, and Ed instantly regrets having said even that much.

“Hey,” he skims his hand along James’s upper arm, rucking the sleeve up enough to reveal his pale shoulder, tracing the line of his deltoid muscle, “hey, it’s fine.” 

James nods like he’s got the hint and moves to push himself upright. 

Goddamnit, no. It wasn't supposed to go like this. Ed reaches over him, effectively pinning him to the mattress, and touches the trackpad. There’s a good twenty minutes remaining on the video; more than enough time to get someone off, clean up, and still pretend to watch the final few minutes. 

He glances back behind him at James, eyes heavy-lidded and mostly closed, hair mussed, his mouth and right cheek a raised, angry pink from Ed’s evening stubble, the only side of his face within reach when they lie back to front. 

“James,” he tugs on his name, elongating the vowel. His finger hovers over the space bar. Through his own t-shirt, he swears he can feel James’s heartbeat. “Why don’t we pause it?” 

James closes his eyes, flings a hand over his forehead. His chest caves inward as he exhales, and Ed sinks a bit with it, preparing himself for the inevitable rebuff. Goddamn it. 

But either James is _also_ growing tired of the whole _let’s watch a documentary back at mine_ pretense — which he’d count as a win regardless — or — his own pulse speeds up like a thrash metal time signature — or maybe he wants it, too. Though the thought is almost too intense for Ed to so much as contemplate he thinks about it anyway, and maybe there is something to be said for to the power of positive thinking, imagining your wishes into reality, because James, his eyes still covered, gives up a tight little nod and in a soft, bashful voice says, “okay.”

Ed’s grin could split his face wide open; he clicks to stop the playback, the screen freezing on a peaceful aerial shot of some sand dunes. 

“—but only for a second, all right?” His speech is slurred, not that they’ve had anything to drink. Other people would relax further and further if you fed them a few drinks, but James, in this as in many things, was about as far from other people as you could get. The problem was that he was constantly comparing himself to them. Relaxed people. Laid-back people. Provided you didn't give James time to measure himself against these fictional people he'd dreamed up to make himself feel bad, then he could be surprisingly pliable. 

He shifts them back to their original positions, his front to James’s tight little backside, and allows himself a few careful, cautious rolls of his hips, stopping only when James whimpers — in protest? Pleasure? A combination of the two? 

“It’s all right,” he says, intentionally lowering his voice. His lips brush against James’s neck, right below his ear, and Ed luxuriates in the way the vibration of his vocal cords travels through to James, whose whole body shudders in turn. 

He places his right hand on James’s side, his fingers seeking out the bony protrusion of his hip, lets him acclimate to the feeling. 

There he goes. First tense, ratcheting up into tenser still, his shoulder blades bowing together, before he settles, finally, into regular old bog-standard tense. 

“James?” he prompts, doing his best not to dig his nails in from holding himself back, “tell me if you want me to stop,” but James only twitches again and Ed figures that’s as good an answer as he’s likely to get. 

He’s barely touched him, and is contemplating unzipping himself to deal with his own built-up pressure when James blurts out, “Where are you keeping it, Ed?” 

“Sorry, what’s _it_ in this context?” Ed asks, because James does love a non-sequitur. His dick is in his pants, obviously, but _it_ could be anything. Best not get too excited. 

James makes a sour face over his shoulder. “Your wank sock, Ed, what d’you think?” 

Ed’s initial impulse is to giggle, because surely it has to be a joke. His _what?_ But James grimaces at him, lips drawn back like he’s bitten into a lemon, and since he hasn’t answered the question is now crawling — fucking hell, James, _come on_ — away from Ed and hanging off the side of the bed to look beneath it. 

“You won’t find anything under there,” he says dryly. Nothing except probably a few tipped-over water glasses, empty and now harbouring dust bunnies, but James ignores Ed’s weak noise of protest and ducks down to see for himself. Which is fine, really. It provides him with a wonderful view of James’s bottom as he tips over and dangles off the side, shifting against the edge of the mattress. Ed’s hand clenches up into a fist and he bites into the knuckle below his right forefinger to keep his mouth occupied. Otherwise he’s liable to lean over and do something stupid. Something that would make James really uncomfortable, like biting his arse. For a start. 

He pushes himself back up, hair falling into his eyes, and before Ed can say anything stupid involving the descriptor _adorable_ he’s lunging for the bedside table — 

“Oh no,” Ed says to himself. James has yanked the drawer open and is rummaging around in there, making a shocking amount of noise, all things considered. Nothing incriminating is likely to turn up, is it? Let's see, a tin of sugar-free green tea edibles, a frayed phone charger that works only intermittently but which he’s yet to chuck away —

“—what’s this, then?” James squints at the little bottle with its viscous, clear liquid sloshing around inside. 

Ah. _That._

“—never mind." He plucks it out of James’s hand, tucks it beneath his own thigh such that James can no longer see it. All it’ll do is make him nervous, and they'd only got past that a moment ago. 

But although he’s put it away, Ed is fully away that now James is liable to be thinking about that bottle, and its contents, and the fact that it’s clearly been well-used. Ed isn’t an animal, of course. He puts a towel over the duvet and washes the towel. At least every other week. 

“—but what's it for?” A furrow has appeared between James’s eyebrows, his shoulders riding up to his ears, as he tries to sort it out. 

Ed shrugs, looks down at James’s feet so that he won’t feel uncomfortable. “Alone time,” he says gently and watches as James registers what he’s implying. A wank sock, honestly? He hasn't used one of those since secondary school. Trust James to require one. Naturally. 

“Oh,” James frowns. “But I thought it was…” he trails off, waves a hand about as if to say _for all that sex stuff. _

“That too,” Ed reassures him, “but it's useful for other things as well.” 

This answer seems to placate James enough to fling his upper half down onto the mattress, slightly closer than where he’d been before. His shoulders are higher than his ears, his legs twisted at an awkward angle away from his body, and Ed has the curious impulse to adjust them so he won't get a cramp in his back. 

Ed shifts back to prop himself on one elbow. The hard plastic bottle digs into his thigh. He tugs on James's shirt until they're snug up against one another once more and tries his luck again. 

His mouth next to James's ear, hand atop his underpants. There they go. He honestly deserves some sort of award for his patience. 

“You must be going mad,” he says, allowing his hand to creep a little lower around to James’s front, when it should be perfectly clear that the only one who's losing their mind from waiting is _him_. 

"Ed," James says, and punches the mattress. "You don't have to do...that." 

His own dick twitches in his pants at how pitiful James sounds. Pitiful but at the same time, he thinks, nuzzling into James's shoulder and fitting his teeth to the curve of it, hopeful. 

“What if you do it? By yourself?” Ed suggests. He gets a mouthful of cotton for his trouble. James’s response is to grab the pillow from where it rests against the headboard and bury his face in it. Not a winner, that idea. All right, noted. 

Ed shrugs. “If it’s all the same to you—” he scoots forward until the bottle rolls out from under him. James turns his head at the movement, then sulkily puts his chin down in order to stare straight ahead of him, pointedly ignoring Ed. 

His stomach lurches. Will this work? At the very least, he can get James comfortable with the idea. Now that he’s made the decision to carry on, what comes next merely unfolds. Without him overthinking it. The overthinking he’ll leave to James, who appears to be engaged in verifying the sheets’ thread count from the looks of it. 

“Do you want me to go into the next room?” he asks. James responds cursory twitch of his shoulder, which Ed takes for a no. He clicks open the bottle cap with one hand, undoes his jeans with the other. He tries to catch James’s eye — he doesn’t think he can spot him looking, but oh, Ed’s onto his tricks by now — and when that doesn’t pan out says casually, trying to keep his voice as steady as his hand isn't, “unless _you_ want to go in the next room?” 

"I'm fine," James insists. Ed looks him over and — okay, that's unexpected — sees that he's rutting against the mattress, not quite in time with Ed's own strokes but more cautiously, like he's trying to keep still but failing miserably. 

Ed mouths a silent _fuck _to the ceiling as James shifts beside him, tantalizingly close but not fucking close enough. 

“D’you want to join in?” Ed ventures, first looking down — fuck, it feels really good — and then over at James, who is by now breathing heavily enough for him to hear. He arches his back and feels his toes spread apart beneath the fabric of his socks. “Feels really good.” 

James lets out a whimper as he looks at him, eyes all wide and trusting. He chews on his lip, mulling it over, while Ed holds his breath. “Maybe,” he says, and leaves it at that. 

Ed pauses, holds himself loosely in one slippery fist. Might as well ask. “I can do it, if you like?” 

“God, no,” James practically recoils, hugging the pillow tightly to his chest, the fabric of his shirt tugging against his shoulders as he does so. 

His dick pulses as if to say _hello don’t forget about me please_. “Suit yourself,” he says, casual as you like, as if he’s got all the time in the world to wait this out. 

James turns his head to the side once more, but the moment Ed’s self-abuse starts back up he’s absolutely riveted. His lips are parted, the bottom one shiny from where he’s licked it, over and over again, and the next time he does it, Ed groans at the ceiling again. His toes curl up as a hot coil of pleasure makes its way through his belly. Maybe by the time they're in their forties he'll have thought up a way to get James's mouth and his cock to meet up finally. 

Ed reaches above his head and locates the other pillow to pass over, his voice scratchy as he says, “put that between your legs.” 

James looks suspiciously at the pillow but yanks it out of Ed’s hand all the same. 

“Only if you don't watch,” he says, turning so that Ed can see his back. That's fine. 

“I won’t,” Ed promises, and, true to his word, closes his eyes. 

They go on like this for a little while, Ed’s brain turning over the last thing he’d seen before he’d turned away: James rolling onto his side and wadding the pillow between his legs, laying his head back down on the other one, his bottom clenching and unclenching in a jerky rhythm, his snug little underwear clinging to the pert curves of it. 

From beside him are huffs, a shuffling sound. The bed squeaks, loudly, and Ed tries his hardest not to laugh, because the noise sounds like they’re having sex when really it’s the furthest thing from it that two people one on bed in dogged pursuit of their own orgasms can be engaged in. God only knows what his neighbours think. 

“Ed,” James says into the pillow. Ed’s hand stills mid-stroke, and he makes sure his smile has well and truly dissipated before answering with a casual, “yeah?” 

“Are you _certain_ you haven’t got a wank sock?” 

“We can repurpose one, if you like. Do you want me to find something?" 

“S’okay. Only—’ his hands clench at the pillow and Ed’s heart lurches. He’s pushed too hard, fuck, and now they’re going to have to start all over again, pretending to watch documentaries in the front room where a flatmate could interrupt at any second and absolutely no one is going to get their cock out. 

“Don’t want to make a mess,” James mumbles. 

“I don’t mind,” Ed says, briskly, to let him know he literally does not give a shit. James is welcome to jizz on all his pillows as well as the duvet; provided he can wash them immediately after. 

A frustrated grunt follows, muffled by the pillow. James twists onto his side and says, with a deadly serious face, like he's come to a monumental decision, “if you’re doing it, I’m doing it.” 

This pleases Ed immensely. James appears to feed off that approval, allowing himself a small smile. 

“Does that help?” he nods at the bottle. 

“Makes it nicer,” Ed says, and tips a few squirts out before handing it over. “Give it a try.” 

James raises one eyebrow so high it almost hits his hairline. He looks down at his tented briefs with trepidation and then shoves them down with both hands, like he’s been waiting for permission to do just that. 

Ed wants to comment on it but he wouldn’t dare. James looks at the bottle as if searching for instructions, then gives up and does exactly what Ed had and applies its contents directly to himself. 

“Fuck!” he drops it, still open, onto the bed. “You could’ve told me it’d be cold!” 

"Here," Ed says, heedless of the open bottle, the slick mess that the duvet might soon become, "let me help you." 

"Shit," James's eyes fall closed as he slumps down next to Ed, who avails himself of the opportunity to get his dominant hand around James's cock instead of his own and gives him a single experimental stroke right up to the tip. 

"Good?" he asks, releasing his hand and squeezing at the base. A fat drop of precome lands on his hand, right between his thumb and forefinger. Seems like. 

James shakes his head as if trying to clear it of cobwebs. "Wow," he says, and Ed can't help it, he giggles. 

It's over quickly, James first, Ed a little longer because he's not left-handed, and that's fine, actually, because it gives James the opportunity to see just how unbothered Ed is by a little mess. 

Except. 

Both his hands are dripping with fluid, and while it was hot in the moment, literally hot, or at least body-temperature, it's a little gross now as it cools off on his skin. He uses his stomach muscles to pull himself to an upright position and tries to remember if he's got tissues, a towel, anywhere in his bedroom. 

James has laid back down, head resting on his upper arm. He takes stock of Ed's situation, blinks twice, and says, "Bet you wish you had a wank sock now, don't you?" 

Ed raises his hands in what would be a menacing manner if he weren't absolutely covered in come. James mock-recoils and then slowly, without missing a beat, tugs off one of Ed's own socks to hand to him. 

"You absolute wanker," Ed counters, but he can't fucking help it. He's grinning like an idiot. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title refers to Ed's observation that when [ listening to Loyle Carner's album](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCSK1XOrBlCh1D8BPpUg-VvQ) he "felt one whole emotion," which was later revealed to be located at the end of his dick. No, I don't know either.


End file.
